The voice that says the same thing
wraps from all points convincingly
tying my forehead to clothes lines
sent out and along creaking pulleys
to flutter and bend in the wind
where cats leap with claws to climb
and a bird lands too late to see

The throngs of bees hidden inside
drawn briefly by garment scents
flitter and fleet briefly, then away

And all that was Heaven became
a dangling white T, flittering and
fleeting hanging by a clothes pin
like an icon in the yard adjacent to
the stained floor garage where
the voice cooed I just love
how your home smells like you.